i. don't you worry, i'm hardly the type to assume that you hurry
[When the Drifter comes to, everything is different.]
[Really, it's a question of just how much is different. Presumably warm-blooded creature that they are, the fact that their body temperature is now far cooler than normal is the first sensation to come swimming back to them - along with the realization that their entire body does not ache with the inexorable pressure of an ever-present terminal illness. Their throat does not contract with every swallow, swollen and ravaged as the tissue has become over time. They can breathe, unimpeded. They can stand, and move, and blink, and breathe, and - ]
[Speak?]
[Something is very wrong.]
[Something is incredibly wrong.]
[Their proportions are all different. There's the weight of long, flowing locks down their back, large horns jutting from their skullout in uneven curled bands of candy-orange stripes, heavy fangs hooked out in devilish curls. Their apparel is both decadent and looks as though it may have been in a scrap of some kind, torn and ragged as it is around the edges. A sense of wonder creeps up into the hollow of their chest, slowly.]
[None of this is normal.]
[When the Drifter finally gets a look at themself, a reflection rippling in the nearest pool of water, they're in for quite a shock.]
[Gone is their sprite, the chime of its presence, the accessibility of its HUD, of the text. Panic is the next thing to slam into their ribs, absolute.]
[It's fortunate that Marvus Xoloto has the ability to flash step his way across the islands, because the Drifter exploits that exact capacity now. It's the only thing they can recognize - speed. They have to return to their body. They have to figure out what's gone wrong.]
[A horned clown dashing madly around the islands willy-nilly in an apparent panic is probably a sight to behold in and of itself. Just don't startle them. They haven't realized that Marvus has a swordcane, but once they do, they certainly won't be afraid to use it.]
[To say nothing of the chucklevoodoos. They haven't realized they have those either.]
ii. the voices get drowned in a corner that's loud and artless
[Adjusting takes time. But once the initial panic dies down, the Drifter's ability to navigate their new surroundings without the biting numbness of perpetual exhaustion and body-wide chronic pain is...it is a rarity. They intend to take advantage of it. Trying to climb the trees on Io, or descending into the winery's cellars to peruse that which they can actually drink without regard for their health...]
[They're not used to speaking, though. Any attempts to strike up conversation will probably result in sign language, unless you're kind enough to point out that they technically have vocal cords right now.]
the drifter | ota | i'll match your format!
[Really, it's a question of just how much is different. Presumably warm-blooded creature that they are, the fact that their body temperature is now far cooler than normal is the first sensation to come swimming back to them - along with the realization that their entire body does not ache with the inexorable pressure of an ever-present terminal illness. Their throat does not contract with every swallow, swollen and ravaged as the tissue has become over time. They can breathe, unimpeded. They can stand, and move, and blink, and breathe, and - ]
[Speak?]
[Something is very wrong.]
[Something is incredibly wrong.]
[Their proportions are all different. There's the weight of long, flowing locks down their back, large horns jutting from their skullout in uneven curled bands of candy-orange stripes, heavy fangs hooked out in devilish curls. Their apparel is both decadent and looks as though it may have been in a scrap of some kind, torn and ragged as it is around the edges. A sense of wonder creeps up into the hollow of their chest, slowly.]
[None of this is normal.]
[When the Drifter finally gets a look at themself, a reflection rippling in the nearest pool of water, they're in for quite a shock.]
[Gone is their sprite, the chime of its presence, the accessibility of its HUD, of the text. Panic is the next thing to slam into their ribs, absolute.]
[It's fortunate that Marvus Xoloto has the ability to flash step his way across the islands, because the Drifter exploits that exact capacity now. It's the only thing they can recognize - speed. They have to return to their body. They have to figure out what's gone wrong.]
[A horned clown dashing madly around the islands willy-nilly in an apparent panic is probably a sight to behold in and of itself. Just don't startle them. They haven't realized that Marvus has a swordcane, but once they do, they certainly won't be afraid to use it.]
[To say nothing of the chucklevoodoos. They haven't realized they have those either.]
[Adjusting takes time. But once the initial panic dies down, the Drifter's ability to navigate their new surroundings without the biting numbness of perpetual exhaustion and body-wide chronic pain is...it is a rarity. They intend to take advantage of it. Trying to climb the trees on Io, or descending into the winery's cellars to peruse that which they can actually drink without regard for their health...]
[They're not used to speaking, though. Any attempts to strike up conversation will probably result in sign language, unless you're kind enough to point out that they technically have vocal cords right now.]